My Journey Through Mental Illness
"Estas bien mija, no lo necesitas". Those were the words I heard my mom say after being diagnosed with two mental illnesses for which I needed to take medications. "You're ok mija, you don’t need it". But I knew I needed to feel better...
The Before
When it takes over. Summer before my first year at UCLA, I had always felt anxiety like an obscure shadow over me, unwanted. Its purpose: to make me fear the interactions and what could have been beautiful moments that only passed me by . Even when I was younger, anxiety seemed to always find its way to me. The beginning of my college career was supposed to be one of immeasurable eagerness to pursue my passions, of desire for adventures, not of a numbing feeling of isolation and powerlessness. The weight of my anxiety took over. You see, anxiety takes away the joy and the "ganas" of the moments that are meant to be celebrated. Celebratory and ordinary moments become worrisome and even lose their value. Anxiety drains the life out of these moments and makes them dull, just like clouds conceal the sun rays, turning a bright day into a bleak and eerie one. As my first year began, I felt myself withdrawing. The new routine, new people, new everything - it all became too much. I suddenly became afraid to talk to people, avoiding any situation that led to human interaction. "Don't go to the dining halls, Artemis.” I would tell myself. “There are way too many people there." On the worst days I felt comfort in staying in my dorm room, thinking that everyone felt the way I did. “After all, it is the first quarter of college. There's nothing wrong with you". But there was no doubt that the intermittent panic attacks, the isolation and the excessive feeling of self-consciousness were different from what everyone else was feeling.
Fact: Borderline Personality Disorder is comorbid with other conditions, such as anxiety and eating disorders.
After some time at UCLA, anxiety was only one of my problems. I enrolled in a Diet and Exercise course that completely changed the way I perceived and thought about my body. This class required me to make a journal about my eating habits, everything from details about what types of food I consumed and my eating schedule. I began to realize I had very harming eating habits; habits that I decided to change. Though me taking this course was supposed to bring about a positive change to my physical health, something went wrong along the way. Suddenly I was overly conscious about the flaws in my body. I began to eat in much smaller portions, thinking this was the solution. If I ate too much I would compensate by over exercising to the point where I had no energy left. It was clear to me that this was not right, that the way I was handling my views on my body were not healthy. However, I was blinded. Every time I looked in the mirror it was like the actual image that was reflected there was replaced with a distorted version, one that I despised and that I had to change at all costs. Even when my obsession with looking thinner reached a dangerous point, I couldnt accept I needed to stop...
The acceptance:
I hit rock bottom. After a year of trying to pick myself up and trying to ignore my depression and anxiety, my condition worsened. My anxiety and fears of judgement from others left no desire to get out or go to class. I could feel myself missing out on the "college life" experience, but at this point my dorm was the only place where I felt safe. My academics began to suffer and I was letting it all happen. I thought of seeking help on many occasions, but who could I tell? I couldn’t come to terms with trusting someone with the facts of my anxiety or my eating disorder. Who would listen without thinking of me differently? The thing about those unsettling and dark moments when it feels like there is no escape is that we forget that there are people out there who care - people who see our struggle and want nothing else than to help us be ok with ourselves, that person for me was my roommate. After months of witnessing what I was going through and knowing that I did not know how to go about asking for help; she talked to our Resident Director. I could not be more thankful for her help.
Our Resident Director offered me so much support, understanding and guidance, with no judgments. She listened to me and even joined in on my first Counseling and Psychological Services (CAPS) appointment. I was also very appreciative of the resource and support I found in CAPS. Prior to my first visit, I had thoughts about what they would say, "you're overreacting", "you don’t have anything serious". Instead, I felt welcomed and felt for the first time, the human understanding I never thought I would receive. I felt their understanding that what I was going through was not just in my head; it was all real. What I was going through was a legitimate illness and the counselors at CAPS witnessed this. After a few more appointments I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder and an eating disorder. Now I had a term for my condition. The newly-found term for my condition allowed me to regard the symptoms that came with it as serious, rather than ones I just invented or justified. I had a term that allowed me to understand what I was feeling and why I reacted with fear to human interaction and to others’ thoughts of me in the way I did. I now understood my fears, anxiety, and my complex perception of my body image. However, understanding my condition did not bring immediate self-acceptance nor healing, especially with my eating disorder. I found that BPD was easier to accept, because after all, anxiety had always been there. The symptoms, which included my anxiety, depression, and low self-esteem, were so constant that I thought it was completely normal to feel discomfort. The habits that came with my eating disorder never felt right. I knew that those habits became habits on purpose. It's something that I wasn’t just scared to admit, but also something I was deeply ashamed of.
I was told I had different treatment options, including group therapy, nutrition counseling, and psychiatric medications. It was at this point that I understood the stigma surrounding medications to treat a mental illness. To me it seemed that medications just revealed a crude reality; my need for medications elucidated the fact that I needed professional attention. I was afraid that I would come to depend on some pills in order to experience happiness and even the avoidance of my deepest fears. I was afraid that pills could have the power to control what I couldn’t on my own. However, I knew that I needed to feel better, and if medications offered a solution, then I would take them.
Since the beginning, I counted on my family's support to get me by and to help me get better. "No lo necesitas, mija"...“You don’t need medications”, my mom said. When I told my mother about the treatment options, she made it clear she did not want me taking medications. "You don’t need it, mija". Looking back, I wonder if the fact that I needed medications also made my condition harder for her to accept. I talked to her about my personal need to feel better, to live without the burden of my fears and anxiety weighing me down, not allowing me to look at myself and feel content with the image in the mirror. After some time she supported my decision and I began my journey to recovery.
Even though I received support from my immediate family members, it was hard to share my experience with the rest of my family. My mom instructed me to not tell anyone else. At first I did not understand why I had to hide this from my family. After all, my family was supposed to encourage and support me. However, their views on mental illness became apparent when one of my cousins became depressed. Their views After witnessing her panic attacks and her struggle within herself, the family comments were "she's just looking for attention", "she's fine, it's a phase", "she's not crazy". It was so alarming to see their dismissive reaction to a condition that could threaten the life of their cousin, sister, and daughter. "Crazy"- that is what mental illness meant to them. My family’s inadequate understanding of mental illness dissuaded me from ever seeking help from most of the people I trusted and loved the most.
The now:
It gets better, with time. I realized that you need to want the help. The worst thing I could do was to say my condition would last forever, because if I gave in and thought that I would never feel better than how BPD and my eating disorder taught me to feel, then I probably would never see my recovery. Gradually, I began to accept my illness for what it was. I did not accept it as a term that defined me, or as a label of who I was; but rather as an experience that I am slowly overcoming; an experience that allows me to understand others who struggle with mental illnesses similar to the ones I dealt with. As I continued with my treatment, I began to notice a willingness for human interaction, a desire to make-up on all the experiences I had missed out on until this point. It was a pivotal moment of change that I embraced and welcomed. I was beginning to open myself up and to allow myself to enjoy simple things that once terrified me.
I look back and realize it was the small things, like when I gathered the courage to ask for multiple burritos for my family at Rendezvous to not let my extra swipes go to waste (upon my mother's request, Hispanic mothers are dead serious about NOT wasting food), when before thoughts of what people might think for asking for more than one and what they could think in general prevented me from performing such simple actions. It was the moment I called my “ama” right after coming out of Rende, multiple burritos in hand, to tell her with such joy what I had just done; that her daughter was overcoming her fears. It was the moment my mother picked up the phone and sounded just as thrilled to hear her daughter was slowly recovering. It was the moment I decided to get involved in All of Us and learned to speak up against the stigma surrounding mental illness. It was the moment I volunteered for the Everybody Eats Campaign to raise awareness about food sustainability, security and health. Reflecting upon all things that have happened and that I have achieved since my diagnosis, I think maybe I was ready without realizing it. Maybe Artemis was ready to get out there all along.
My motivation to share my experience with Borderline Personality Disorder and my eating disorder came from rarely reading stories of other Latinos who share similar mental illnesses as my own. It is rare to find Latinos coming forward to stop the stigma that mental illness has picked up in the Latino community. With sharing this story, I want to motivate Latinos who are currently struggling and that feel the need to hide their conditions from their family to speak up about this issue and educate our community.
A word to all Bruins:
Often times it is difficult to put ourselves in the shoes of someone who is experiencing a mental illness. In the same way, it is difficult to know when someone is in a battle with themselves, because these are conditions that consume people from within. When you walk around campus, consider that the person you passed on your way to class might be struggling with themselves. I want to encourage you to think about the terms you use on a daily basis that might be harmful for those with a mental illness. “That’s depressing”, “she’s so OCD”...be conscious about the meaning of these words. If you use these words try to make a change in the way you express yourself, if you hear others don’t hesitate to offer a better way to word what they mean. We have to start somewhere, and I think this is a good way to bring consciousness about mental health. We are all in this together.
A word to you:
The worst times when dealing with my mental illnesses came when I struggled to feel good about myself because I wasn’t happy. However, I have learned that it is ok to not feel happy all the time. For you who is reading this and struggling with a similar condition, please know that it is not your fault and that asking for help does not make you weak. Take advantage of the resources provided at UCLA, reach out, don’t wait. And remember, there is no shame in what you are facing, no matter where the stigma is coming from, whether it is from family, friends, or society as a whole.